


Miles: Bonding Fathers

by lyricalsoul



Series: Miles to Keep [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bonding, M/M, Miles to Keep, Mystrade Marriage, New Fathers, Parent'strade, a bit of angst, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-09 02:22:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3232715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyricalsoul/pseuds/lyricalsoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Miles have a bit of an early morning bonding session.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miles: Bonding Fathers

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, it's an update. Don't faint! 
> 
> Real talk: I was going to abandon this fic. Mostly because my inspiration was snatched out of my life, and I didn't see him for a year. However, his mom and my bro are back together and he's back! And with him came my Miles!Muse, and this bit, which was languishing on my thumb drive, was brought back to life. 
> 
> I can't promise anything like weekly updates, but I won't abandon it. There are bits already written that just need fleshing out.
> 
> So, yeah. Thanks for your patience, and for your kudos and support and all the things writers need to sustain them. You are all awesome.
> 
> Thanks in advance for excusing any typos or glaring British baby-raising errors here. The hands are old and tired, and don't always cooperate.

Mycroft sighed at the tiny hiccup from the baby monitor, and set his laptop aside. Half-four on a Friday morning, he thought ruefully, and there was still so much work to be done before he went to his office in a few hours.

Miles gurgled again, and Mycroft gave in to the inevitable, and slid out of bed. As he put on his dressing gown and slippers, he looked over at his husband, who hadn’t so much as stirred. Not that Mycroft expected him to, even though Gregory swore he’d wake at the ‘first squawk from the wee lad’. It was, after all, early days, and when a Lestrade went to sleep, they slept, and the world be damned. Mycroft turned off the baby monitor, and headed for the spare room-cum-nursery.

Fundamentally, Mycroft knew that taking custody of a baby and deciding to raise him was as close to insanity as he was likely to come. His lifestyle – well, both their lifestyles, really, were ill-suited for a child. Mycroft was ill-suited to be within a one-meter radius of a child, truth be told. He barely tolerated people, as a rule, let alone a baby. Babies, as far as he recalled, were messy, needy, expensive, and noisy. (Which to his mind, defined Sherlock perfectly) He hated mess, noise, and neediness. Of course, there was Gregory, an exception to every rule Mycroft had ever dreamed of. He tolerated him, and had deep, abiding affection for him, which was as close to love as he would come.

And now that deep, abiding affection extended to baby Miles – had done from the minute he’d laid eyes on him. The obvious signs of neglect aside, he knew as soon as Miles was placed in his arms that he would do what he considered logical, and also the right thing, and take custody of the baby.

Not that it hadn’t hurt, seeing the baby Gregory created with his conniving ex-wife. Of course, Gregory going back to his wife had been Mycroft’s idea. He couldn’t – wouldn’t – deal with the indecisiveness, the doubt, and what he perceived to be longing to be elsewhere. It turned out that he was only half right – there was always something. Gregory would never stay where he perceived he wasn’t wanted, and that one row had been enough to make them part.

He leaned over the cot, and looked down at Miles. “Good morning, Miles,” he said formally. He’d read that speaking normally to an infant caused them to talk at an early age, and that using baby talk (not that he would dare) wasn’t necessarily bad, but it was better to speak in plain English. Or French, or whatever language they should choose.

Miles cooed and kicked his legs outward, causing his tiny foot to poke through the hole in the gown he was wearing.

“You’re feeling particularly robust this morning, aren’t you?’ Mycroft reached in, lifted him from the cot, and held him to his chest, and found himself actually surprised at the depth of feeling he'd already developed for Miles. So much for caring not being an advantage, he thought wryly. “As I know routines are important to infants, let’s start with a change of clothing, first, hm? Then your breakfast, a bit of reading, and you can indulge in your fascination with your purple raccoon. You do know that raccoons are not purple, Miles?”

He laid the baby on the changing table, stripped off the wet nappy, wiped him down with a warmed baby cloth, deftly put on a dry nappy, and swapped out the gown for a romper with building blocks all over it. “I understand that you are a baby, and have little say in the manufacturing of clothing, but this is horrendous. The patterns are enough to induce a migraine. I know to have you in a waistcoat is impractical, but I will have to look into this… conspiracy of horrid baby clothing. Perhaps we can talk to my tailor, and see… well, I’m certain your father would have a conniption, should I even suggest bespoke clothing for you, but it’s a thought. I suppose you like lurid colours, and I should leave well enough alone, right?”

With a gurgle, Miles stuffed his fist in his mouth and sucked, making his thoughts on the matter loud and clear.

“Oh, you don’t care as long as you’re fed, do you?” Mycroft dumped the dirty nappy in the air-tight container, dropped the gown in the basket, and lifted Miles into his arms again, rubbing a cheek against the soft fuzz of his hair. “Phase one, completed. And you are a very good baby, aren’t you? No crying or fussing from you. Content. We’ll be sure to mention that to the potential nanny.”

“Oh, yes, young Miles… you will have a nanny,” Mycroft continued as he walked downstairs to the kitchen. “Your father and I can’t… well, it’s not that we can’t, and I don’t want you to ever think there’s anything you can’t do. We don’t have jobs with normal hours – how boring would that be – and it would be disastrous for either of us to quit, regardless of what your grandmummy may think. So, we’ll get someone to watch over you until you’re ready for school. Exclusive, of course. But not boarding school… I promised your father.” He put Miles in the bouncy seat (that he’d put together himself while preventing an economic crisis), and set it on the large dining table. A week ago, he would have balked at such an action, citing scratches in the expensive wood, but he’d come to the realisation that _things_ could easily be replaced. “Shall we introduce a bit of cereal to your diet, son?”

It was a messy affair, but Mycroft managed to get a few spoons of rice cereal mixed with formula into Miles’ mouth. It was rough going, and required a bit more patience than Mycroft was used to allowing, but he persevered. Most of it ended up on the bib, but progress was progress. The ex-wife’s family hadn’t even attempted to give the poor baby anything other than bargain formula, so Mycroft thought it best to fortify his diet. The doctor had pronounced him relatively healthy, and of course, Mycroft balked at ‘relatively’, and requested (Gregory will say he demanded) a course of action that would ensure Miles’ healthy growth. He would deal with the neglect issue when he was feeling less... vengeful. 

He cleaned Miles up, and carried him to the living room. He checked the fire, then sat in his chair, Miles in his lap, purple raccoon in hand. “So, Miles… what shall we read today? The Times? The Sun… no, they’re nothing but gossip and misinformation. How about this?” He picked up the book Mummy left after her disastrous visit the other day. He looked down at Miles, who was sucking his fist, and kicking his feet in contentment. “All right, so we shall. But I refuse to use silly voices, son, so don’t ask.” He cleared his throat. “‘Here is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin…’”

***

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

Mycroft stirred from his light doze, blinking at Greg, who was kneeling beside his chair, stroking Miles’ hair. “I’m sorry?”

“It was my turn,” Greg said. “You should have woken me.”

With a quick check on the baby, who was still tucked in the crook of his arm, sleeping soundly, Mycroft smiled. “You have court today. I thought it prudent to let you sleep. And I was already awake when he woke.”

“Don’t you worry you’ll drop him?” Greg stood with creaking knees, and gently took the baby. “I’m always worried I’ll trip, and he’ll go flying out of the window or something.”

“Anxiety is pointless, and he’ll most assuredly pick up on it.” Mycroft shook out his tingly arm, and set the book and the discarded raccoon on the side table. “He seems to like to be read to, though I would prefer less fanciful tales.”

“Well, you can’t read him any of that,” Greg nodded at the crimson folder marked ‘eyes only’. “Turn him into a Bond villain for certain.”

“Mother read Stevenson and Carroll to Sherlock. You see the results.” He smiled at Miles. “But you’re a very content, easy-going lad, aren’t you, Miles?”

Greg smiled and shook his head in amazement as he watched Mycroft let his fingers dance along the baby’s stomach. “Let’s hope he stays that way. How’d it go with the cereal?”

“He seemed to enjoy it, though most of it ended up on his bib. The more we feed him with the spoon, the better he’ll get at it. Dr. Williams advised that we slowly add a bit of the baby fruit to it, which seems nauseating, but babies seem not to mind. I also advised Miles that he would be getting a nanny.”

“Yeah? How’d he take it?”

“He sucked his fist and kicked his feet in agreement like a true Lestrade.” Mycroft frowned as his mobile chirped. “Duty calls, I’m afraid. I’ll be done before you’re ready to leave. Don’t fret.”

“I wasn’t – well, yeah. It’s just all a bit daunting, you know? Whatever we do right or wrong is going to affect his whole life.”

“If you look at it like that, you’re bound to be nervous,” Mycroft said soothingly. “He’s your son. Our son. If we can’t nurture him to grow up to be an upstanding man of character, we’re doomed. Just do what comes naturally. He’s got good instincts, and barely causes a fuss at this point. Please try to relax.”

“I’ll try,” Greg said with a fond smile down at Miles. “All these routines and you being over-organised is all a bit…” He waved his free hand in the air. “Mind-boggling.”

“Apart from you being an excellent detective with better-than-average instincts, everything is written out and posted on the refrigerator, Gregory. Let him lie on the baby mat for a bit on his stomach so he can work out his inclination to scoot, then on his back with the toys over him. He’ll be reaching for them soon enough. While he’s doing that, you can get your toast. The coffee is hot and ready.” Mycroft tugged Greg closer and kissed him soundly. “He’s a very good baby. You really need to stop worrying.”

Greg blushed and flashed a shy smile at Mycroft. “You’re… thanks for being such a good chap about all this. It can’t be easy for you. And I’m sorry for not – “

Mycroft held up a hand. “Don’t, Gregory. If we don’t leave the past in the past, we cannot move forward. I know that Miles being here might be a constant reminder for another, less agreeable man, but I am not looking at him in that way. I am overjoyed at being allowed to raise your son with you, and that you trust me to do so, in spite of all the things you ah, know about me. I do not take the responsibility lightly, and cherish young Miles as though he were my own blood. It is up to you to let go of your perception of him as a mistake, and move along to being a good father to him. He needs consistency from the both us, even at this young age.”

“I know,” Greg sighed, “and I’m going to give it my best. But we do need to talk about it, if only to air out what we’ve not said about what all this means. Maybe not today, but soon, yeah?”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed, if somewhat grudgingly. He had no desire to dredge up past, painful events, but if it would help Gregory relax, so be it. “After your mother leaves, we’ll open my latest whisky acquisition – a brilliant twelve-year-old Cragganmore that you will love – and hash it all out. But once we do, we will mention it no more. Agreed?”

“Agreed. Give us a kiss so you can be off.”

Mycroft pressed a kiss to Greg’s forehead, and to Miles’ right foot. “I’ll see you both in two hours.”

Greg watched him go, then looked down at Miles. “Right, then. Just me and you, wee lad. Let’s get you settled on your mat so that I can get a cup of coffee. Hopefully, your da’s instructs aren’t all complicated and long. He’s very thorough and meticulous, you know. Not sure how that’s going to work for you, but I’m sure you’ll let us know. And I can’t wait for you to meet your uncle Sherlock…”

Mycroft smiled at those words, and quietly closed the door to his office.

***

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you didn't know, the story Mycroft is reading to Miles is Winnie-the-Pooh. His mum calls him Pooh, remember?
> 
> FYI, anon commenting is on for this fic. If you don't like it, don't knock it - someone else might think it's all right. Just move along peacefully. Or email me privately at lyricalsoul at gmail dot com.


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